


Amiens

by ellamequiere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamequiere/pseuds/ellamequiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Treaty of Amiens is signed in 1802, in the middle of the Napoleonic Wars, France wants something he can't have.  </p>
<p>Um, this isn't violent or anything, but England pretty clearly doesn't want to be there, so I marked it as noncon.  So just be aware of that I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amiens

“Out for a walk, Arthur?”

The other man didn't turn around. “Don't call me that,” he said, absently.

France sighed. There had been times when they'd managed to be civil with each other, regardless of their political situation-- even if he couldn't quite think of when. This was clearly not going to be one of those times, no matter what the language of the treaty implied.

The treaty. Everyone knew it was going to be temporary, even the men who had written and signed it. But after Lunéville, what could England have done? Even he knew that he couldn't fight France alone.

England... bitter, angry England. Willing to keep fighting after two collapsed Coalitions, and a decade of defeats. A part of him curled, smug and catlike, around the futility of England's plight. Another felt a pang. They'd fought, they'd been fighting all their lives, and there had been anger, even hate. But it had always been a hot anger, with cursing and shouting and-- France smiled-- sex. But this? He'd never felt this level of coldness from the island. There was no anger now, not really. Only tiredness, and cold antipathy.

“What are you doing here, France?” The man said, finally, without turning around.

France shrugged, even though he knew England wouldn't see. “Peace, friendship, and good understanding. Isn't that what our bosses call for?” 

England snorted. “Don't recite the language of that ridiculous treaty to me, Francis.” France smiled softly at the slip-- he was sure England hadn't meant to use his human name. “We both know that if it hadn't been for Marengo and Hohenlinden, we wouldn't be standing here.” France felt warmth stir in his stomach at the mention of the battles; there was nothing wrong with being proud of his children.

France took a step closer. “Be that as it may, Arthur-- “ The man turned to walk away. He felt something in his chest contract; he hadn't seen his long-time rival, sometime sometime friend, outside of battle in twenty years, outside of official negotiations for much longer. “Arthur-- England. Come back.” He didn't stop walking. France put on a seductive purr, and said “Arthur, aren't we going to seal this treaty?”

The man stopped sharply. France summoned a sultry laugh. “Winner's privilege, Arthur, old as war.” England turned, slowly, expressionless. “Come,” France instructed, and walked the other way. His heart pounded; he felt sick. Had he ever called on this tradition with this man? He didn't think he'd ever had to.

England followed, as France had known he would.

He lead them back to his town house, ignoring the jeers and whoops from the soldiers who saw them-- they knew what it meant for their nation to take their enemy inside. Neither of them had bothered to keep their identities secret during this war, and the taboo against homosexuality didn't apply to this. He glanced back briefly, and saw that England's expression had turned to stone. He put on a smile for his men, and ushered England in ahead of him.

England climbed the stairs; he knew where France's bedroom was. France closed the door behind them. England turned. “Shall I undress?” he asked, flatly. 

France's smile hurt. “Please,” he said.

England's movements were slow, mechanical, as he undid the complicated buttons and buckles on his uniform. France could have told him to keep it on-- it was common. He didn't.

The uniform was folded, put aside. England stood before him, naked but standing perfectly straight, looking at a point over his left shoulder, limp as a baby. France crossed the room to close the curtains, the light through the cloth dying England's skin a warm yellow. England didn't move. France undressed himself as well, without thinking too deeply about why. Certainly in the past he had done this clothed. But running his hands down England's back-- remembering hot mouths and snarled threats and cries of ecstasy-- he let himself recognize that he wasn't doing this for the right reasons. Hands on England's hips, he kissed the side of his neck, and let himself imagine.

“Shall I lie down?” England's voice was flat. 

France, eyes closed, said “Yes.” 

England crossed to the bed and lay on it, face down, legs spread. France wondered how long it had been since someone had done this to him. He thought of the Netherlands. “On your back,” he said, and England turned over without question, staring at the ceiling.

France knelt over him, and pressed their mouths together, ignoring England's lack of response. His eyes slid shut, and he kissed his way down the other man's chest, imagining panting and hands in his hair. Stomach, hips-- bones sharper than they had been the last time they'd done this-- and then his lips were against England's cock. Eyes still screwed shut, he whispered, “Arthur. Put your hands in my hair.”

Silently, the man complied, fingers limp. France let out a quiet breath, and let his mouth slide over the end of England, the man partially hard now despite the circumstances. Without letting himself think, he whispered “Pull.”

England complied, and France gasped, now in a totally different place and time, lips loose around England, throat aching for more. He knew the man's body well enough that he had him fully hard in moments, and was all the way down moments after that. It didn't take long for England to come, silently. France stayed face buried between the other man's legs for as long as he dared, aching against the bed, memorizing the feel of him, of them. 

“Go,” he said, finally. England got dressed silently, and left, derision in his face as he shot a look at the man on the bed. France ignored him, already working himself, remembering.

**Author's Note:**

> *The year after the Treaty of Amiens was the only time between 1793 and 1815 when France and England weren't at each other's throats. Basically, it was a stopgap treaty, while England got together another Coalition to throw at France.
> 
> * Marengo and Hohenlinden were decisive victories for France over the Austrians, and resulted more-or-less in HRE, Russia, and Naples withdrawing from the war. The Treaty of Lunéville was between France and the HRE, negotiating for HRE's withdrawal.
> 
> *The Anglo-Dutch wars were some of the few that England has lost since he became his own nation.


End file.
